My Brothers Keeper
by VimesLady
Summary: Commander Sir Samuel Vimes faces betrayal, threats to his family, danger, anguish, and paperwork.*FINISHED, INCLUDING AUTHOR'S NOTES*
1. My Brothers Keeper - Ch. 1

MY BROTHER'S KEEPER

by VimesLady

A/N: This is definitely not the sort of thing I usually write. For one thing, it's rated PG-14 and has absolutely no sex in it. It also seems to have developed a plot, of all things! It is recognizable as mine, however, in that it spends an inordinate amount of time detailing the acts and life of Samuel Vimes.

I'm quite sure I started out to write a Vimes/Angua story that has been percolating in my head, but this definitely isn't it. Possibly next time. 

Vimes, Sybil, Willikins, Carrot, Drumknott, Vetinari, Keeble, Visit, Angua, Fred, Detritus, Morecombe, Slant, Mrs. Content, Littlebottom, and all Discworld locations are the sole property of the world's greatest author, Terry Pratchett. No copyright infringement or disrespect is intended.

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"You just feel free to look around at the other rooms upstairs at your leisure," Sybil Ramkin-Vimes said casually as she led the way down the stairs, "But those are the only ones we're using right now. I hope you'll be able to help with the nursery, especially, I've got so many ideas about setting it up."

"Yes milady," the girl replied respectfully.

"We'll finish up down here and then go out to the dragon....Oh good, here's Sam. Hello, dear."

Commander Samuel Vimes put his helmet on the table nearest the front door. "'Evening, Sybil," he replied. He stopped to give her a quick peck on the cheek before undoing his breastplate and stripping out of his chain mail shirt, both of which he left on the nearest chair.

"You can just leave those, Suzanne, Willikins will take care of them. Sam, this is Suzanne. She's going to be helping me out around here now that the baby's coming and all."

"How do you do, Your Grace," Suzanne said politely, curtsying.

"_Never call me that again, and stop with the knee bending, and we'll get along just fine," Sam replied rather absently. He was already occupied with the pile of letters, messages and clacks that had been lying beside his helmet, and only glanced briefly at the pretty, petite servant. She looked taken back and a bit frightened._

"Sam! Oh, honestly. Sam is very sensitive about titles and such. Doesn't really approve of them, I'm afraid. You can best get away with Commander or Sir Samuel. Come, you can help me with dinner. Sam is a rather picky eater, but he usually seems happy to eat what I cook. Which is odd, rather, because I never could cook worth anything."

"I'm not picky!" Sam protested rather sulkily, continuing to peruse the messages. "I like my eggs and bacon fried hard and my steak near raw. And pork's no good if it comes from a lean animal; pigs were meant to have plenty of fat. Just because I can't stand some of the rich posh muck the nobs serve doesn't make me picky."

"Well, if you don't like what's put in front of you, you just pick at it, Samuel Vimes, and you need three good meals a day, the way you run around. It wouldn't hurt you one bit to put on a little more weight. Supper in a few minutes, dear, and I'll get you a glass of juice right away."

"Don't bother, I'll get it." He trailed after the two women into the kitchen, frowning at the evening issue of the Ankh-Morpork Times as he walked.

"We always have fresh fruit juice or lemonade cold for Sam. You can help with that, Suzanne. We don't have alcohol around except for what beer the servants keep for themselves. Well, except for when we have guests, of course. I'll certainly be able to use your help for what social events we may host. Anyway, through there is the wine cellar, all the hard spirits are down there as well, but it's locked fast and I have the key."

"Yes, milady." Suzanne was now looking rather flustered, trying to stay upright on the white-water rapids of Sybil's conversation.

"Not that Sam couldn't pick the lock in a minute if he was of a mind to, but he wouldn't do that. Sam doesn't touch alcohol."

"I'm still standing here in the room, Sybil," Sir Samuel muttered as he poured his juice.

"Sorry, dear, but it's true."

Vimes growled something unintelligible. Suzanne looked back and forth between the two. She'd added puzzled to flustered and nervous. 

"Willikins and the kitchen boy do most of the shopping, Suzanne, but they could probably use your help, especially after the baby comes. But mostly, with me getting more tired out and fat every day, you'll just help me do those sorts of things a man wants from his wife."

Suzanne's mouth fell open slightly, her eyes widening and a blush touching her cheeks.

"You know, making sure the dirty clothes on the floor end up clean in the closet," Sybil went on blithely, "that all the mail and clacks that come in are kept sorted, that there are cigars and matches where he expects them to be... Sam, dear, are you alright?"

"Y...yes, just swallowed wrong," Samuel answered, still coughing after choking on his juice. He left the kitchen shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck, which had turned somewhat crimson.

"Huh." Sybil said as she watched him leave, but with a trace of a smile. Suzanne suddenly doubted that her puzzlement was completely genuine. "Well, anyway, yes, his cigars, and of course making sure things are reasonably clean. Willikins does what butlering Samuel will tolerate, which is not much anyway, he doesn't like being fussed over..."

"SYBIL!"

"Oh, dear."

"Whoever the Wossname of Wherever is sitting in my chair eating what looks like this morning's Times mixed with a piece of the tablecloth. Damn, he's dribbling! There's another hole in the seat! Sybil, we've talked before about this..."

"Sorry, dear, we'll be right there," Sybil called. She turned back to Suzanne and lowered her voice to a loud whisper, "I really must keep the trainees out of the house when Sam is home," she explained, "And I'm afraid I won't be able to catch the little devils without help if I get much more awkward. Well, I did say I needed to show you the dragon house..."

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"Well, what do you think of Suzanne, dear?"

"Id'nknow," Vimes responded noncommittally, stretching and wriggling as he settled comfortably into the bed, "She under-fried the potatoes a bit. And she's a little young, isn't she? I would've thought you might want a grandmotherly type."

"Well, I'm no spring chicken, dear, and having someone full of energy here to help seemed like a good idea. She's highly recommended, with good experience. Her previous position was serving the Queen of Lancre during her pregnancy and after the infant princess was born."

"Hm. Lancre. Wondered why I couldn't place the accent. Anyway, all your nob lady friends are going to be green with envy now that you've stolen a girl from right under the nose of royalty."

"Oh Sam, you know I don't care about things like that," Sybil rebuked, without complete sincerity.

Samuel suddenly stirred himself from the verge of sleep. "Are you feeling alright, Sybil? I mean, is everything okay? It's not like you to want extra help around the house."

"Oh, I'm fine, Sam. Tip-top. Really. I wouldn't have thought of hiring someone myself. The job brokerage suggested her, it being such a convenient coincidence that she came to the city looking for just this kind of work. And we do have to face that things will become more difficult as time goes on."

Vimes settled back into the bed. "Well, I think it's a good idea then. I don't want you to overdo. Having someone experienced in these things will be good for you." A frown formed at the corners of his lips. Alarm bells were going off in his head, trying to be heard over the 'it's been a long day and we're going to sleep now' stupor.

"She is a pretty thing, isn't she though?"

A spark of fantasy flared in his subconscious as possible dream material, completely derailing other trains of thought. Samuel stretched again, letting one arm fall over his eyes. "You know I don't care about things like that," he mimicked. "And you have more than enough energy for me."

Lady Ramkin smiled fondly and curled up next to her husband.

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The Watch House was awash in controlled chaos. Watchmen doing paperwork, Watchmen chatting, Watchmen lounging, Watchmen talking to victims, Watchmen questioning prisoners, Watchmen shouting... Commander Vimes still felt a bit unnerved by the idea that his command had grown from a dispirited group of three men to... to this! It was a struggle these days to even remember all their names, and there always seemed to be new recruits he couldn't recall having met. 

For Vimes, mornings at the Watch House meant facing that most hated of tasks: paperwork. He made his way quickly across the room with the goal of getting a cup of coffee and then seeking refuge in his office without attracting the attention of Captain Carrot. He was, as usual, entirely unsuccessful. He hadn't even gotten the coffee poured when he heard Carrot's hearty "Good morning, sir!" There was no escaping it. Carrot fell into step behind Sam as he made his way through the crowds and upstairs to his office.

"What's new to report, Captain?" Vimes asked, in an attempt to delay the inevitable. 

"I've gathered together the major incident reports from the past 24 hours, sir," Carrot replied, holding out a small stack, "I thought this might be more efficient than putting them all in your in-box." He looked pointedly at the corner of Sam's desk where the in-box had last been seen. 

Samuel accepted the stack reluctantly. More paper. He seated himself behind mountains of the stuff. Somewhere under there, he was fairly sure, was his desk. He shuffled enough of the mess to create a level surface for his coffee mug. "Okay, I'll get started on reading these right away."

"Er, before you do that, sir, we really need you to sign last month's wage bill. And Drumknott sent a rather emphatic note from the Patrician's office yesterday, reminding you that you still haven't returned the trial schedules he sent over last week. Those require your signature and the names of the assigned Watchmen. And the enrollment orders for..."

"Okay, okay, Carrot, one thing at a time." Vimes took a long swallow of coffee, then patted his pockets until he found a cigar and match. He took his time lighting the cigar, blew out a smoke ring, then eyed the vicinity of the in-box. "Could you, er, give me a hand here?"

"Certainly, Commander." Carrot managed to sound perfectly respectful and yet convey an element of reproach that made Vimes squirm with guilt. The Captain began gingerly sorting through the piles nearest the semi-mythical in-basket. 

Samuel's mind immediately wandered off in search of something less boring to consider. Shuffling through the papers closest to his chair, he put down, and immediately lost, the reports Carrot had handed him earlier. 

"Carrot, the job brokerage is over on Cheap Street, isn't it? You familiar with the place?"

"Here, I found the wage bill. Mr. Keeble's place? Yes, sir. Liona is a pleasant enough fellow, quite dedicated to matching the jobless with the best position. Ha, here're the new recruit enrollment orders! Uh, sir, you didn't put the wage bill down without signing it, did you?"

"Um... no... er... wait... here it is. Okay, there's got to be a pen here somewhere..." Samuel began digging through the desk drawers. "Who's on patrol over that way this morning?"

"Don't you have a copy of the rota up here? I still can't find the trial schedules."

"Humor me. Run downstairs and check the rota while I sign this and get started on the reports." The Commander took a swig of his coffee for fortification before he scribbled what looked vaguely like "Vimes" on the appropriate line.

"Oh, I know who's on duty there, sir. Constable Visit and Probationary Constable Silicanslateslayers. I just thought you should have a copy of the rota handy. Where could the trial schedules have gone?"

_'He's got the rota memorized,_' Vimes thought wearily, _'And I don't even recognize some of the names on it.'_ "Silicanslateslayers? That's a mouthful. Troll?" Vimes guessed.

"Yes, sir. Well, technically Slate can't go on patrol until you've signed these." Carrot rescued the wage bill and replaced it with the enrollment orders.

"Okay, okay." Sir Samuel began writing, his signature becoming ever more illegible. "Slate, eh? Good. I can see as how 'Probationary Constable Silicanslateslayers and Constable Visit-The-Ungodly-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets' would take up a full page on the rota. Gods, a new troll in the Watch, and in this heat. Alright, as soon as I finish with these I'm going to catch up with them. I've got to walk over that way to speak with Keeble. And I should at least be able to say I've met Slate. I'll send Visit back here to help you with the schedules, once you've found them. Have him dig out the name of the arresting officer for each case. I'll check and sign them when I get back. Okay, here's the enrollment orders finished."

"Are you talking with Mr. Keeble about Suzanne?"

"You've met her already? Good gods, man, I only met her last night, and she's going to be living under the same roof with us."

"She just arrived by coach a couple days ago. She's from Lancre, where I grew up. So she did get the job as Lady Sybil's girl?"

"She started last night. How did you know about it?"

"When she got off the coach she was quite at a loss. First day in the big city, you know. I remember how that was. At any rate, she approached me, feeling she could trust a member of the Watch, I'm proud to say. She told me how she had been Queen Margrat's lady while she was carrying and nursing Princess Esmerelda, and asked how she could find a similar position here. Oh, look, here are the trial schedules, under this stack!"

"Oh goody," Sam replied sourly, "Look, I'll do those as soon as I get back. I'm getting writer's cramp."

"If you say so, sir. Well, when Suzanne said that, of course I thought of Lady Sybil, and how nice it would be for her to have someone to help out. Especially because your duties here do keep you away from home long hours of the day and often into the night, partly because you won't delegate more. No disrespect meant, sir."

"I'm sure," Vimes growled, even though he knew somewhere inside that he was being unnecessarily nasty. "But I thought Keeble sent her over."

"Well, I took Suzanne to the job brokerage, sir, feeling that was the proper way these things are done. But I did mention Lady Sybil to Mr. Keeble. What do you think of her? Sir, there are unsigned leave requests sitting here!"

"It's hard to say, I don't interact a lot with the servants. But Sybil seems happy showing her the ropes at the house. So, did you know Suzanne or her family when you were growing up? You've apparently met every living and undead soul in Ankh-Morpork, and Lancre hasn't got much of a population." 

"No, sir. I grew up in a dwarf community, remember. You have read these memos, haven't you, sir?"

"Doubt it. Can't reach them clear over there. Anything important? Any of those leave requests from Nobby?"

"I only write memos about things I think you'd want to know, sir," Carrot admonished, "Um, three are Nobby's."

"Hand them over, then, with Nobby's on top. That's true, the mountain dwarves pretty much stay to themselves." Vimes wrote 'DENIED' in large block letters on the first three leave requests, then went to work signing the rest, "Give me the short version of the memos, then, while I finish these."

"Before I left to join the Watch, I really only knew one human."

"That's in a memo? Oh, sorry, never mind, go on."

"Well, this one's about Fence Spencer. He got killed in a fight in the Shades last week."

"Old Fencer? Damn. He was a bloody good informant, given the right incentives. Wife and kid at home, if I remember correctly. Had a satisfactory funeral, did he?"

"Yes, sir. The Watch covered half the cost, since we had to confiscate his inventory and return it to the rightful owners. The Thieves' Guild covered the rest of it."

Vimes handed over the leave requests, then took a wallet of personal vouchers from his pocket and scribbled in it. "Here, make sure this gets to Fencer's wife. I doubt the Guild will be paying her any death benefits."

Carrot looked briefly at the scrip before pocketing it. "That's very generous of you, sir. You always think of the ones other people forget about, the truly needy people who sort of fall between the cracks."

"What else have I got to do with my money?" Vimes replied gruffly, "Can't drink it away any more, Watchmen have a formal Widows' and Children's Fund these days, and Sybil buys me anything I need before I realize I need it."

"Uh, sir, some of these leave requests are for dates that are already past."

"Well, then, you just wasted my time by having me sign them, didn't you?" Samuel retorted irritably. He'd had just about enough of Carrot's subtle nagging for the present. "Just leave the rest of the memos there, Captain, I'll get to them later. Now, where did those incident reports go?"

"I just gave them to you, sir."

"I realize that, Carrot. Got to be here somewhere. Damn, this coffee's gone cold. Ah, here they are, knew I had them right here. Any of these have to go to the Patrician?"

"Sir, all of those might be covered with Lord Vetinari. The more minor reports are still waiting for you downstairs."

"Godsdamn, all of them?!" Vimes rubbed his forehead where a headache was settling in. "Okay, let me look these over quickly, then I'm off. I'll meet you at the Palace at 1:00."

"Yes, sir, only, if we show up at the Patrician's office without the trial schedules..."

"OKAY! Okay, let Corporal Visit finish them off, then bring them with you to the Palace at, say, 12:45. I'll check and sign them before we see Drumknott. In fact, here, bring these incident reports with you too, and meet me at 12:30. I've had about as much paper as I can handle for the moment." Vimes pushed back his chair and started making his break for the door. "Slate shouldn't be left on the streets alone. Tell Visit to meet back up with him at, say, the Curry Gardens at 12:20. I'm heading out... now, Captain Carrot. Don't even mention those papers you just picked up." He stalked out, leaving Carrot behind to forlornly balance paper stacks. 

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The fiendish and malicious clock in the antechamber outside the Patrician's office said 12:55. The irregular ticking, along with the heat spell that held Ankh-Morpork in its merciless grip, were turning Sam's headache into something reminiscent of the hangovers of former days. At least he'd gotten through the trial schedules and taken down in his trusty notebook the dates and times of those that he wanted to attend personally. Now Carrot, who seemed to get along much better with Vimes' Dis-Organizer than Sam himself did, was patiently teaching the appointments to the imp while Vimes finished scanning the incident reports. 

He'd already read yesterday's day shift reports at home last night. It annoyed Sybil immensely, he knew, that he'd started bringing home paperwork, but she accepted it because it meant Sam was getting home for dinner regularly. Well, almost regularly. Okay, at least four days out of seven. Usually. 

Incident reports were probably Vimes' least loathed form of paperwork. He liked reading up on what his Guardsmen had been doing. It made him feel that he hadn't completely lost touch with what was happening in the city. The stories, however, came in a myriad of styles, none of which were easy to read. A report from a dwarf was likely to read like the saga of a great battle. Visit's were filled with religious references and words like "smote" and "asunder". Carrot tended to collect all the commas from half his reports and throw them ballistically into the other half. Everyone had their own unique spelling rules. It was best to not even mention the reports from the trolls.

It was Vimes' considered opinion that the Patrician's extensive spy network would already have informed his lordship about everything that might be in the reports, and quite probably several other incidents of which the Watch was totally unaware. The trick was guessing which of the matters the Patrician would consider worthy of his attention, and reporting on them. If you guessed right, Vetinari would listen with apparent interest, and then ask detailed or tricky questions that might or might not appear pertinent. Relate something he didn't want to hear about, and you ran the danger of being subjected to a discrete yawn, designed to send shudders down the stoutest of spines. But failure to report on an incident Lord Vetinari considered important would be punished with sarcasm, irony, and possibly sardonic or even satirical remarks, which were enough to ruin a man's whole day. And night.

"There you go, sir," Carrot said sprightly, handing the Dis-Organizer back to its owner. Vimes pocketed the thing and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes against the headache.

"How did your meeting with Mr. Keeble go?" Carrot was never one to let what could be a peaceful moment go by without filling it with friendly conversation.

"Well, Suzanne's letter of recommendation from the Queen is fine. 'Trustworthy, dependable, good companion, sorry to see her go, will miss her, wish her the best, etc.' Apparently the girl just grew bored and wanted to experience life here in the big city, as so many of them do. Nothing unusual, except she grew bored with living in a castle."

"Lancre isn't wealthy, sir. The castle probably isn't as much a place of luxury as, say, your home. Why do I feel as though you're still not satisfied?"

"Mmph. Carrot, what's the fastest way I can get an inquiry to Queen Margrat?"

Carrot frowned in concentration. "Communication with that part of the world is still pretty haphazard, Commander. Letters from home usually take weeks to get here. The closest the clacks get is Pseudopolis. You could have a personal messenger sent from there, if you don't mind the expense."

Vimes studied the back of his eyelids for a moment, then sighed. "Remind me to stop by the big tower after we finish here."

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A week went by, followed by another. Vimes got a new in-basket and put it on top of the papers under which the old one was buried. It was already overflowing. 

The heat wave held on like a very tenacious furnace. Everyone was irritable, and fights, ranging from women stabbing their husbands to riots in the dwarf section, were on an upswing as a result. Crimes such as unlicenced thieving, on the other hand, were down, primarily because it just wasn't worth the effort in this heat. Slate was not doing well, since his brain was barely functioning enough to keep him upright, much less learn the ropes of the Watch. 

Suzanne, on the other hand, was fitting in quite well. She'd learned to get the potatoes nice and crunchy, and she almost always remembered to get the young trainees out to the dragon house before Vimes was due home. Sybil was already wondering how she'd ever gotten along without her.

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

"Gods, this bloody heat's a killer!" Sir Samuel had begun stripping off armor and chain mail even before he got the front door closed. Suzanne met him with a glass of lemonade in hand.

"You're a wonder, I'm half dead of thirst." Vimes took several swallows of the juice, his other hand scratching irritably at his chest, stomach, ribs and back where his sweat-soaked shirt clung to him. "How'd you know I was about to walk in the door?" 

"I happened to look out the window from upstairs, sir, and saw you coming up the street."

"Good timing. Where's Sybil?" 

"She's at a meeting at the Sanctuary, sir. She said to let you know she would probably be late and not to worry."

"Mph." Vimes acknowledged, "Think I'll go up now and have a bath, then, get this damn sweat off me." He finished the lemonade in thirsty gulps and handed her the empty glass. 

"Willikins is out, sir. I'll draw the bath for you, but dinner is nearly on the table."

"Thanks, but I'm really not hungry. It's too damned hot. And I can draw my own bath, I should think." He picked up the mail.

"Sir, Lady Ramkins will be dining with her friends tonight. She said I should put proper food in front of you, and you would eat. She was quite emphatic about it, sir. I could have your bath ready by the time you're finished eating." Suzanne was nearly wringing her hands.

"Oh, very well," Sam groused. He was too hot and tired to argue with Sybil, even by proxy. He sat down at the dining table, quickly becoming engrossed in the mail. Food soon appeared in front of him and, as Sybil had predicted, he began eating on autopilot.

Vimes blinked his eyes hard, trying to focus through the sweat that had apparently dripped into them. There was still nothing from Lancre. Well, who knew how inefficiently things might run in a tiny kingdom like that. He really felt rather ridiculous now anyway about checking up on Suzanne. She was a timid little thing, anxious to please, and Sybil seemed to like her a lot. Someday he was going to have to work on not being such a suspicious bastard.

The letters on the papers continued to blur. Sam stretched, yawning, and rubbed his eyes. When he started the Ankh-Morpork Times Late Edition, the tiny type made his vision swim. It didn't really matter, he decided, he was too tired to concentrate anyway. He yawned again. The heck with the bath, he just wanted to lie down and sleep for a few hours. 

The food he'd been eating suddenly seemed to sit unsettled in his stomach. He tried washing it down with more lemonade, but that made him feel even worse. Maybe Carrot was right and he really should take things a bit easier. No, it was probably just this heat.

He realized suddenly that Suzanne was standing nearby, watching him oddly. "I gotta ge' some sleep," he told her. He started to stand, but his stomach lurched and the room spun. Gods, he felt awful! On the second try he got to his feet, but the room seemed suddenly darker, and he fell jarringly to his knees. He tried to focus on Suzanne, who was watching him dispassionately. "Something's... wrong... I can't... think I'm... sick... Ge-get Willill...kins."

Suzanne smiled nastily. "Sorry, he's out this afternoon, remember?" she answered, her voice a mocking singsong.

Sir Samuel fell forward, barely able to break his fall with his hands. He tried to push himself up, but his arms were useless. 

He realized he'd been stupid, a damn bloody stupid idiot. Suzanne had access to the daily mail and clacks. If she saw something from the Queen of Lancre, she could just pull it when Sybil wasn't looking. And of course a copy would have been sent to his office, where it was probably nicely buried on his desk...

"Damn you... Godsdamn you..." he whispered, as cotton enfolded his brain, "You... you... poisoned..."

The darkness poured over him and he slipped into nothingness.

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

  
_To be continued… _(Gee, do ya think?)


	2. My Brothers Keeper - Ch. 2

_'I'm alive. Gods, I'm alive. Not an assassin, then.' _At least, he was fairly sure he was alive. For one thing, he needed very badly to throw up. He was determined he would not, however, since heaving would no doubt make the horrendous pounding in his head even worse.

For another thing, he was tied to a chair. Wrists, ankles, bindings around his chest. Sir Samuel didn't have strong opinions about what would happen after his death, but he was almost certain it would not involve nausea, headaches and ropes.

"So, Lord Vimes, you're awake."

"Unfortunately. And don't ever call me that." Sam realized he must have made some sound or movement in his struggle toward consciousness. He forced his eyes open, which turned out to be Not a Good Idea. The room was spinning and the light felt like it was piercing his brain. He closed them long enough to swallow bile, then stubbornly opened them again, albeit more slowly. Eventually he was able to lift his eyes and focus, quite fuzzily, on the man standing in front of him. "Who're you?"

The man backhanded him, hard. "Wrong question, Your Grace. And I can call you whatever I want."

More pain, and the taste of blood where his lip had split, but anger had germinated now and was growing at an impressive rate. He bit back even the slightest groan, and forced himself to start taking stock of his surroundings.

He was still at home, still in the dining room, tied to one of the straight-back chairs. His wrists were secured tightly behind the chair back, and additional rope secured him to the chair at chest level. His ankles were tied together and... damn, this was bad... there seemed to be a rope around his neck leading behind him to his feet. It wasn't terribly uncomfortable as long as he didn't try to kick out. He figured that if he did he would effectively choke himself.

The man, who was dark, stocky, and perhaps slightly younger than Vimes, seemed only very vaguely familiar. Suzanne was in the room, standing in the background. And the sun was blazing in through the rimward windows. Gods, it was morning already.

"What did you do to me? Where's Sybil?"

"Oh, Your Lordship, I'm sorry to say that the Duchess is not feeling well. Not well at all. She's upstairs in bed. In fact, she's been there since early yesterday afternoon. There was nothing but a slug of sleeping potion in your food and drink. I'm afraid she's not as lucky."

Rage and panic overcame logic for an instant, and Vimes struggled futilely against his bonds. "Are you telling me she was here, upstairs, when I came home? What have you done to her? What the hell have you done to her?"

"We'll get to that in time," the man replied infuriatingly.

"Why are you doing this? Sybil's never hurt anyone! Get me out of these ropes and let me see her! NOW!"

The man chuckled. "Lord Vimes, you are in no position to make demands or ask questions. Those are my... what's the word? Prerogatives? Right now, I want you to tell me about your family.

"Sybil is my family. She and our baby that she's carrying. You can't..."

The man struck him again, the blow to his temple making his ears ring. 

"Wrong answer again! Try something else."

Sam spat out blood from his injured lip. He could feel the hot numbness of a spreading bruise making it difficult to keep his right eye fully open. 

"I said to try something else!" the man growled, anger pouring into his voice.

"Tell me what the hell you want."

This time the blow hit his jaw.

"Jack, stop it!" Suzanne spoke up, her voice nervously shrill, "This will never work if he looks like he's been beat up!"

"Oh, he'll just tell everyone he got into a fight with some dangerous criminal while he was playing at being a brave po-lice man, won't you, Your Grace?"

Sam was breathing hard through his nose now. The last blow had cut the inside of his cheek on his teeth. He could feel blood dribbling from his mouth and had to fight from gagging on the taste. He had to stay conscious. Damn, he just had to stay conscious.

"Now, we'll try again," Jack said with mock patience. Tell me about your family. Your real family."

_'The only family I have aside from Sybil is the Watch. Carrot? Fred? Detritus? Where are you? I need some help here._

_'Family…'_

{*}"My father's name was Thomas. He died decades ago."

"Good start! Keep going."

His mother, Tommy, and Loretta were all dead as well. Ron... Ron had gone off to find his fortune. Vimes hadn't heard from him since they were kids, but this wasn't him. Alice...

He hadn't seen Alice since her wedding, maybe, what? At least twenty-five years ago. He'd gotten drunk. Bloody, stinking drunk. A good way to insure that your little sister would never want to see your face again. Not that they'd ever been what you'd call close. She'd married... someone from out of town. They'd moved off to find a better life than Cockbill Street and the Shades had to offer. Name. Name, damn it!

Jack.

"Jack Corbis," Vimes muttered, suddenly certain.

"Very, very good, Duke Samuel! Well done!"

Vimes lifted his eyes to Suzanne. She didn't resemble Alice in any way. Alice had been dark haired and, to be honest, not particularly pretty. And she'd be at the very least twenty years older than Suzanne by now.

Sam spat out another mouthful of blood. "Where's Alice?"

"Aww, I'm afraid I'm just full of bad news for you today. Your sister's dead. She had this terrible accident, falling off a cliff. Probably wouldn't have had to happen, you know, if you'd just given some thought to your family. All that money, millions and millions of dollars, and you never once thought to send anything to poor Alice and me."

"I hadn't... We didn't... I didn't even know... It isn't really my..." Vimes sputtered, and then gave up. Corbis was right. He hadn't even thought. Guilt fell like a heavy blanket over the flames of his anger.

"I told Alice we needed to get in touch, sorta establish things. Cause after all, if you and the Duchess were to both be killed, why, we're your next of kin. But Alice, she was a proud one, said we had no right begging. No right begging, that's what she said! And then to top things off you had to go and start a family. At your age! Which means this brat, if it's born, becomes your next of kin. Well, I thought it was obvious we had to do something, but Alice just got all upset, and next thing you know she's fallen into a crevice so deep no one can even find her body. Now Suzanne here, as well as being half as old and three times as pretty as Alice, she understands how these financial matters between family members ought to work."

Vimes' brain felt numb. His stomach was still on the verge of revolt, and the pain from Corbis' beating had joined his headache to become a universe of throbbing agony. He was so tired, so damn tired. He didn't dare think. He was sure that if he let himself think, there'd be an ambush of guilt and pain and fear waiting for him.

He wanted a drink. Oh gods, gods, he really needed a drink.

"So that's what this is all about? Money? What have you done to Sybil? Tell me what you've done to Sybil."

"Well, now, that's what we need to talk about. Suzanne and I have already been through this house pretty thoroughly. Found a couple nice stashes of house money, the Duchess's lovely collection of jewels, things like that. First, you're going to tell us about anything we've missed. Then you're going to visit your solicitor and get your hands on all the ready cash you can. I know all about investments, and I realize it'll only be a few hundred thousand, but I'm sure you'll do everything you can."

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO SYBIL?!"

"I'm trying to explain, Your Lordship. See, the Duchess has ingested some poison. Very lethal, I'm afraid, but very slow acting. She'll live for three or four days, I'm sure. Now, we don't really want your lovely wife and child to die. There is an antidote, and we've hidden it away for safekeeping. Once you've given us everything of value you can lay your hands on, and we're safely on our way to a better future, I'll send you a message telling you where it is, and you can save their lives. Of course, if you don't cooperate, or if you try to stop us, well, their deaths will be on your hands."

"You're out of your damn mind. Why on disc would I trust you to send the message?"

"Because from your point of view, Duke, it is so much preferable to the alternative."

"Alternative?"

"Yes. If you don't cooperate, your wife and the kid-to-be die. And you, with our assistance, will be so... bereaved? Is that the word? ...that you'll just do yourself in. Now here it gets a bit tricky. It would have been so much better if Alice had been cooperative. But fortunately, her death is not common knowledge, even back home. So. After an appropriate few days, I'll come into town prepared to bury my brother-in-law. Maybe I'll make up a simple story about why Alice couldn't accompany me. Hell, maybe I'll even hire me a nice actress type to play the part of Alice. No one here would know the difference. And you see, 'Alice' will be your next-of-kin. No one else to inherit all those millions except for some of the Duchess's looney uncles. Oh, and what's his name? Your brother Ron? Hell, Alice didn't have a clue where he is, and I doubt anyone else will either. So you see, this alternative is riskier for me, but potentially so much more lucrative.

"You bastard! You godsdamn bloody bastard! I promise you, you won't get away with this!"

"Oh, and of course, your two servants we have drugged and tied up in the wine cellar would have to die, too. I notice you haven't even thought about them."

"You'll murder your wife, a pregnant woman, and three men. For stinking gold. You foul, sick streak of piss. Suzanne, you really think you can trust this monster?"

"Hey now, no one said I murdered Alice. As for the rest, that all lays directly on your head, Lord Vimes. Suzanne can see that. If you have such a low opinion of money, just give me everything you can and a free pass out of town. And no one else will have to die. It's all up to you."

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

"Carrot?" Sergeant Angua generally walked with preternatural silence, but this morning, as she burst through the doors of the Watch House, she was stomping. Quite effectively. "Carrot, if Vimes and Vetinari want a K-9 unit in the Watch, they are going to have to give the Training School money for supplies. Damn it, Carrot, I turned in the requisition forms two weeks ago, and I haven't heard a thing! We're out of everything!"

Captain Carrot turned from the filing cabinets where he was working. "I'm afraid I remember seeing the requisition forms on Mister Vimes' desk," he said sadly.

"Well, where is he? Can you get him to sign them?"

"He hasn't come in all morning. Hasn't even sent a message reporting in. I'm actually getting a little concerned. I was thinking of sending a pigeon out for him, but there's nothing really urgent that needs his attention, and if he's actually taking a few extra hours for himself, I don't want to interrupt him."

Angua blew her hair out of her eyes in exasperation.

"Tell you what. We'll go upstairs and find those requisition forms, and I'll make sure he signs them as soon as he comes in."

"Dig through the Commander's desk?" Angua replied, horrified.

"It's okay. It's kinda like digging a mine shaft. If you take it slow and watch what you're doing, you can avoid an avalanche. And I don't really think it's true that there's anything bigger than a cockroach living in there."

They made their way up to Commander Vimes' office. Carrot started on the newest in-basket while Angua tried a promising pile that had migrated to the floor. 

"Oh, here's..." Carrot exclaimed after a moment.

"Did you find them?"

Carrot didn't answer. He was staring intently at a piece of paper, his lips moving as he read. "Oh, no," he whispered hoarsely, "This is... Angua, we're heading over to the Commander's house, right now. He needs to see this. There could be trouble."

"Carrot, what is it?"

The Captain handed Angua the clacks message. "Come on, we've got to get over there."

Angua followed him down the stairs, reading as she went.

It was a message dated a week ago, from Queen Margrat of Lancre. She stated politely that regrettably she had never employed, or even been acquainted with, a Suzanne Alberts.

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

{*} A/N: Sam came from a "large" family and his father's name was Thomas ('Feet of Clay'), but I know of no other information on his family of origin. If anyone else does, please let me know and I'll change this accordingly. 


	3. My Brothers Keeper - Ch. 3

A/N: One of my favorite authors here (waves at Jinxster) gave me some great advice when I was struggling through this chapter. She basically told me to stop making it so much work and write what I like. I did that and, low and behold, I had 3,000 words just flow onto the keyboard. Pretty good words, too. Not, unfortunately, the _next_ 3,000 words of the story. Anyway, this chapter is finally done, although personally I'm not overly proud of it.  

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Lady Ramkin lay still and pale. They had put her in the Almost Orange Bedroom, the one Sybil kept aired out for the overnight guests she and Sam never had. She would have looked as though she was very soundly sleeping, except Vimes knew that, had that been the case, she would have been very soundly snoring. She didn't stir at all when he called her name. Vimes couldn't do more than that; his hands were still tied firmly behind his back. At least he could see that she was still breathing.

He'd resolutely refused to cooperate until he had seen her. After all, he certainly had no reason to trust their word. He felt he should be relieved to see that she was actually alive. He wasn't. He was too filled up with fear and fury to fit in any relief.

The adrenalin Sam counted on at times like this just wasn't there. His brain was having trouble pushing coherent thoughts through the pounding headache, the throbbing over the entire right side of his face, the churning nausea, the helplessness, the terror, the guilt.

He needed a plan, a way to overpower the two of them, with his hands tied behind his back. And with his legs so numb and stiff from the hours spent tied to the chair that he couldn't walk without stumbling. And then force them to tell him the whereabouts of the antidote. 

So far nothing was coming to mind.

"Okay, you've seen her," Corbis growled, "Now let's get on with this. The faster you get us what we want, the better your chances are of saving her life."

Vimes allowed himself to be shoved out of the room, but halted in the hallway outside the master bedroom. "Look, if you expect me to go to Morecombe's office, you've got to at least let me use my privy, for gods' sake. I'm going to be pretty conspicuous with the front of my trousers soaking wet, which is going to happen pretty damn soon if you don't." There were weapons hidden in the bedroom against possible emergencies, and his razor in the lavatory. Besides, nature really was calling, and rather loudly at that.

"Not in there," Corbis replied gruffly, "You can use the one downstairs, but you're gonna hafta hold it until I'm ready to untie your hands. Suzanne, get him a clean shirt and bring it downstairs. This one has blood on it."

Standing in the front hallway while Suzanne sponged the caked and dried blood off his face, Sam saw that his short sword and crossbow were missing from their usual place. He couldn't think of an excuse to go into the kitchen, where he might be able to grab a knife. 

Eventually Suzanne untied his hands, while Corbis stood a few feet away aiming a crossbow at his chest. New agonies awoke with stiffened muscles and resuming blood circulation, but Vimes forced himself to flex and stretch his fingers, wrists, elbows and shoulders. If he did get a chance, he wasn't going to fumble it because his hands were numb. He headed into the downstairs lavatory, but when he started to close the door Corbis kicked it open with his foot and followed him in.

"Er, you're not going to stand there while I'm taking a leak, are you?"

"You shy, your grace?"

Vimes faced the necessary and unlaced with still awkward fingers. "Look, could you just give me a minute's break here? This is not the easiest thing in the world to do with a crossbow pointed between your shoulder blades!"

"Just get on with it."

Sam tried desperately to think about running faucets, pouring rain, flowing fountains, or anything else except the possibility of sudden death aimed at his back. Eventually his aching bladder won out.

He changed shirts, the crossbow in Corbis' hand never wavering, and was pronounced adequately prepared for the trip to the solicitor's office. Vimes felt obscenely naked going outside like this - no chain mail, no breast plate, no helmet, no crossbow, not even his short sword. And now he was going off unarmed to withdraw hundreds of thousands of dollars from the vault on Kings Way. Clearly attempted suicide. He tried explaining this to Corbis and Suzanne, but was assured that Corbis would have adequate weapons to defend them both. Or at least to defend the fortune. Samuel did not find any comfort in this.

Two of the finest Ramkin horses were tethered outside, each saddled and laden with several sturdy saddlebags. Sam gathered from the bulges that the jewelry, gems, silver and gold taken from the house were already packed up. It was the first time that aspect had even crossed his mind. Sybil would be distraught... no, Sybil would be livid... when she discovered the loss of all the family's hoarded heirlooms.

Gods, just let her live to make the discovery.

"Okay, Duke, I want you to hear this loud and clear," Corbis began as the three of them approached the horses. "Suzanne, his grace and I are going to take the horses and pick up the money. We'll need both animals to carry it all. If we aren't back here in one hour, kill one of the servants. Shut your mouth, Vimes! If we aren't back in another half hour, kill the other servant, take one of the other horses, and get out of here. You know where I'll meet you. If anything looks suspicious, if things don't go smoothly, you kill the servants immediately and take off. Got that? You get that, Duke?"

"I got it," Vimes said grimly.

"Okay, your grace, saddle up and lead the way." 

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

Angua and Carrot were within sight of Scoone Avenue when Vimes and his escort rounded the corner onto King's Way.

"Carrot, there's Mr. Vimes!"

"Where? No, it can't be... you're right! Those are Ramkin horses." Angua gave him an exasperated look. "Commander! Sir! Over here! Wait just a minute!"

Vimes had a brief discussion with the other man, then they began walking the horses toward Carrot and Angua.

"Sir, you're hurt! I should have known something was wrong when you didn't report in this morning. What happened?"

"Just a brief altercation, none of your concern. Whatever is on your mind, it's going to have to wait, Carrot. I've got some urgent personal business to attend to and I'm in a hurry."

Angua took Carrot's arm, digging her fingernails into his biceps.

Carrot frowned with confusion. "But, Commander, this could be important. Have you seen this clacks from Lan...?"

"I said not now, Carrot. Go back to the Watch House and cover for me until I can get in."

"O-Okay, sir, if that's what you want," Carrot stammered, clearly uneasy, "But I really think we should stop by your home first..."

"No!" Vimes shouted, "There's no... no need for that. Go back to the Watch House now and take over until I get this sorted out. That's an order, Captain Carrot!"

"Yessir." Carrot saluted. Vimes and his companion urged the horses back out into the traffic without a backward glance.

"Something's very wrong," Angua hissed as soon as the two men were out of hearing range.

"Something's certainly out of the ordinary. I haven't seen the Commander out of uniform and unarmed since... I'm not sure I can remember ever seeing him out of uniform and unarmed, not when he's supposed to be on duty."

"It's more than that, Carrot. He's scared."

"Scared? Of what?"

"I have no idea. But I've been with Commander Vimes in some pretty sticky situations, and he doesn't scare easily. But now... Carrot, I could smell the fear pouring off him a block away. Anger, too, a lot of it, but that's pretty standard for Mr. Vimes. But mainly fear. He's terrified. Really terrified."

Carrot stared after the two men. "I don't know what to do. He doesn't want to say what's going on. And he gave me a direct order. He knows I'll obey that, Angua."

"He knows you'll obey it. I'm not quite so literal about these things, Carrot. And besides, he was talking to you. He didn't say a thing to me."

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Morecombe walked into Mr. Slant's office with a handful of paperwork and a somewhat nonplused expression. "I need a second authorization signature on these, Slant," he said, putting the papers on the desk, "I'll need to take a rather large figure in gold and jewels out of the deep vaults. Inconvenient, and a little puzzling, actually."

"Vimes?" said Slant, glancing over the paperwork, "That is uncharacteristic. He never touches that fund. Proud, self-righteous drivel about it not being his money, even though Lady Ramkin has signed it over to him. And all in hard currency?"

"Well, it seems he's making a large purchase as a surprise gift for his wife. Says that the seller insists on a cash transaction. He appears more nervous than enthused, though"

"Well, one must keep in mind that the man has an enormous, irrational phobia of vampires, sir. Hmm. Still seems rather odd, but then, Vimes is an extraordinarily peculiar individual." Slant signed the paperwork and handed it back to the senior partner. "Alright, sir, there you are."

As Morecombe left the office, Slant rose from his desk and paced circumspectly to his window. He took in the stranger waiting outside with two horses from the Ramkin estate.

Mr. Morecombe, who had been the Ramkin family solicitor for centuries, was an exceptional genius with finances and a cagey man with investments, particularly using other people's money. But he was also a highly trustworthy, rather uncomplicated vampire when it came to dealing with his clientele. Mr. Slant, on the other hand, defense attorney to the very rich, had spent centuries as a zombie developing the twisty sort of mind that would instinctively look for all of the loopholes, implications, allusions and weaknesses in people and their actions. He was a totally suspicious bastard, although he would have been appalled to think he had this or any other trait in common with Samuel Vimes.

Coming to a quick decision, Slant returned to his desk, used his quill pen and finest stationery to compose a hasty note, and called for a messenger boy.

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

Completing the transaction at the solicitor's office, loading the horses, and returning to Scoone Avenue had taken over fifty minutes. Samuel was soaked in nervous, impotent sweat by the time he and Corbis rode around to the back of the house.

Suzanne came rushing out of the door as they dismounted. Her hair was disheveled, her face streaked with dirt and tears, and her clothes shredded in several places. Blood oozed from a wound on her right arm. She had belted on Sam's short sword; there was blood on the grip, but not the blade. 

"Jack!" she cried out, "Jack, thank gods! There's a wolf in there! A wolf! It broke right through the window!" She glanced fearfully over her shoulder and back into the house. "It ran upstairs and, and looked at Lady Sybil like, like it knew what it was doing! It licked her face! Then it ran downstairs and, so help me, Jack, it threw itself against the door of the wine cellar until it broke open! It's down there now, with the servants!"

"Did it attack you? You're bleeding!"

"It, so help me, Jack, it acted like I wasn't there, until I got the sword and started toward it. Then it bit my arm and pulled until I dropped the sword, and it growled and tore my clothes and chased and, and _pulled me clear down the stairs and into the back corner of the Mildly Yellow Sitting Room. And then it just, just lost interest in me. That's when it started in on the cellar door. I went back upstairs after the sword, but I'm not going down in that cellar after it!"_

"Godsdamn it, get back in there now and see what it's doing!" Corbis roared. He grabbed and loaded his crossbow, pointing it straight at Samuel's chest. "I said no tricks, your grace. I told you everything had to go absolutely smoothly."

Sam held up his hands placatingly. "Hey, you can't blame me for a wolf breaking into my house. We don't keep any pet wolves. Just swamp dragons."

"You and I are going into that house. You first. You're either going to sort this out or be dinner for that wolf."

Vimes could hear a horse at full gallop, just turning onto Scoone from King's Way. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or panicked. "Look, you've got what you want. Let me handle the wolf. I think you'd better leave. Right now."

"I don't like loose ends, Lord Vimes, and a trained wolf is a loose end. We're going to kill that wolf. Then you can take a short nap in that cellar, with the servants and the drink you love so well, while Suzanne and I are getting out of here."

"Never mind," Vimes replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose and shaking his head, "It's too late now."

Captain Carrot came around the corner on horseback, dismounting and drawing his sword in one smooth motion almost before the animal was stopped. He approached Corbis slowly but without hesitation.

"Okay, Watchman, stop right there or your Commander and Duke is dead," Corbis commanded. He still had the crossbow aimed at Vimes, but was trying to watch Carrot from the corner of his eye. The Captain had slowed, but was still advancing one careful step at a time.

"Carrot, I ordered you to go to the Watch House," Sam said, his voice tired and worried.

"I did, Commander. But now I have orders from the Patrician himself to bring both you and this gentleman to the Palace immediately." His eyes hadn't left Corbis. "Put down the bow, sir, you're under arrest."

"I said stay where you are!" Corbis shouted. Carrot stopped. "Now," he continued, "How about you put down the sword instead? Works a lot better for me. Under arrest for what?"

"Threatening an Officer of the Watch with a lethal weapon, sir. Now put it down. It will go a lot easier on you if it's 'threatening' than if it's 'attempting to attack.'"

"Put down the sword now or it's going to be 'killing with a lethal weapon.'"

"Then you will be holding an unloaded crossbow and be under arrest for murdering an Officer of the Watch. None of us want that, sir." Carrot took another step.

"Don't kill him, Carrot," Vimes said sharply, "Sybil's been poisoned. You've got to get him to tell you..."

"Vimes, shut up!"

"...where the antidote..."

"Vimes, tell him to let us go now or..."

"Carrot! Behind you!" Vimes screamed.

Then several things happened simultaneously. Or at least as close to simultaneously as the human mind can register. Actually, some events definitely sneaked in before others, but the only way Samuel could comprehend how they led to the end result was to go through the whole thing frame by frame much later, after the dust had settled.

Frame One: Carrot spun around, lifting his sword to block the clumsy swing Suzanne was making with Vimes' sword.

Frame Two: Corbis swung the crossbow around to point at Carrot.

Frame Three: Vimes launched himself at Corbis, while a sleek golden wolf leaped through the air at Carrot.

Frame Four: Corbis sent the bolt flying toward Carrot's back. 

Frame Five: Vimes impacted glancingly with Corbis, while the wolf struck Carrot, knocking him out of the bolt's path.

Frame Six: Corbis fell backward, landing on his backside. Vimes hit the ground hard several feet past him, ending up with his face in the dirt and no air in his lungs. Carrot fell heavily onto his back, the beautiful but heavy wolf landing hard on top of him.

And the bolt from Corbis' crossbow buried itself directly into Suzanne Alberts' heart. 

_To be continued (obviously)…_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. My Brothers Keeper - Ch. 4

For a frozen moment no one moved except Suzanne, who, eyes wide, fell slowly to the ground. 

Corbis was the first to recover. Sparing hardly a glance for Suzanne, he struggled to his feet and stumbled to the nearest horse. The animal was near crazed, caught between its excellent training and instinctual terror of the werewolf, but Corbis was desperate enough to pull himself into the saddle. By the time Vimes could sit up, wheezing and gagging, Corbis was heading down Scoone Avenue at a gallop.

"Don't kill him!" Samuel shouted. This was rather unnecessary considering that Carrot and Angua were still involved in untangling themselves. "Whatever you do, do not kill him!" Vimes crawled-scrambled to Suzanne's side. It was immediately obvious she would not have any last words. Sam grabbed his short sword, staggered awkwardly to the remaining horse, and began pulling off the saddle bags, slicing through leather straps in his rush, intent on getting rid of the extra weight. By the time Carrot and Angua had recovered enough to stand, Samuel had mounted the horse and was tearing at full speed after Corbis.

It was a chase that definitely fit into the Ankh-Morpork definition of street theatre, except that it was moving too fast for anyone to get a good view. One man on a heavily laden horse, tearing pell-mell through the streets, leaving a trail of outraged riders, carters, and terrified pedestrians in his path. Following fast on his tail, the Commander of the City Watch and Duke of Ankh rode shouting and waving his short sword, destroying all hopes that the traffic tie-ups might untangle any time soon. A growing group of particularly dedicated spectators trailed after them to see what might happen next.

Traffic thinned as they neared the city walls and Vimes, whose horse now had the strong advantage, caught up to his quarry at Dark Bridge, coincidentally just short of the race course. Standing in the stirrups, Sir Samuel leaned far out in a maneuver he would never have considered had he not been caught up in the heat of the moment. His sword scored a long, shallow cut from Corbis' shoulder to waist, drawing a thin path of blood. Corbis screamed and swayed in the saddle, but didn't slow his pace.

"You're under arrest," Vimes bellowed, "You're out of options, you're out of chances... Give it up! Stop, godsdamn you!"

The Commander pulled almost even with his prey and slashed out again, this time marking the length of Corbis' forearm. With a cry of despair the man began to fall from his horse. In an act that not only bordered on insane but crossed over without stopping at customs check, Vimes pulled his far leg up to the level of his saddle and leaped. He tackled Corbis in such a way that they both hit the ground on the other side of Corbis' horse, Samuel's impact softened somewhat since he landed on top of the other man. Without a second's hesitation, Vimes struggled to sit upright straddling Corbis' stomach, trapping both of the man's arms with his knees.

"WHERE'S THE ANTIDOTE?"

Corbis had seen better days. He was beyond struggling with Vimes and was struggling instead to breathe. "If... if you... kill me... you'll... you'll never... know."

Vimes punched him. He was that angry, that he would punch a man who was down. On the other hand, there were enough sane brain cells left to pull the punch so as not to break the man's jaw. The same cells registered the audience of vicarious thrill-seekers they had attracted, and the sound of an urgent voice saying, "Excuse me... I'm sorry... City Watch business, I need through here... Pardon me..."

"I won't kill you, but I damn well can make you wish you were dead. Where. Is. The. Antidote?"

"Get off... Let me up..."

Vimes' fist came down again. The number of sane brain cells was falling dramatically.

"Mr. Vimes, stop. Let the Patrician sort this out." 

Samuel heard Carrot's voice without really, well, _hearing _it.

"I'll tell you... I'll tell you... Let me... let me go..." Corbis pleaded, "Let me go and I'll tell you..."

Sam drew his arm back for another blow.

"Commander Vimes! We have direct orders to appear with this man in front of the Patrician _immediately_!"

He froze. Sane or not, nearly all of Samuel's brain cells belonged first and foremost to a copper, and they all came to attention at the tone of Carrot's words. 

Very, very slowly, Sam let his arm fall to his side.

He was suddenly, devastatingly exhausted. Everything from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair screamed in agony. Unconsciousness was becoming a definite possibility. The anger and adrenalin that had fueled him drained away. All that was left was the fear.

"We'll have to stop by the house," he said in a quiet, lifeless voice, "Leave these saddlebags. Check on Willikins and the kitchen boy. And I... need to... see Sybil..."

"Yes, sir. Angua is there, she'll be taking care of things. But yes, sir, of course, we can stop by on our way." Carrot was in command because he had to be. It wasn't easy. He didn't know the whole story, but what he knew wasn't good.

Vimes was barely aware of struggling to stand, of Carrot hauling Corbis to his feet and putting on the handcuffs, of Corbis gibbering, still trying to bargain for freedom, of Carrot overriding the pleas by methodically reciting the official rights of an accused prisoner.

The crowds were slowly dispersing now that the show appeared to be over. Whether because of their superb training or because of the wall of spectators, the horses were standing nearby. After seeing what Vimes was currently capable of, no one had dared touch them. 

Sometime in all the confusion, Sam had dropped his short sword. He picked it up now, pulled out a grubby handkerchief, and began very carefully cleaning the blood from its edge.

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

Vimes was sitting on the lounge in the upstairs foyer of his home, smoking a cigar and staring at the carpet. He had never sat there before. No one did. It was kept uncovered and presentable only because one had to walk by it on the way to the upstairs bedrooms. Sam had a horrible suspicion that the couch was kept specifically for times like this; a place to sit while awaiting word on a patient lying in one of the bedrooms. It didn't have much dragon damage, since the little blighters mainly stayed downstairs.

The dragons. He'd have to get someone from the Sanctuary to feed and care for the dragons.

Willikins was settled comfortably into his bed. He and the kitchen boy hadn't consumed nearly as much of the sleeping potion as Vimes (he remembered how thirsty he had been, how he'd guzzled the lemonade), but they had been through quite an ordeal, lying tied up on the floor of the wine cellar since early afternoon of the day before. Willikins was made of stern stuff. He'd be up on his feet by tomorrow. As for the kitchen boy, as soon as he had swallowed enough water to speak, he had resigned, effective immediately, and asked to be taken home to his family.

All of the saddlebags into which Corbis had stuffed valuables now sat in a corner of the living room, guarded by the particularly effective bulk of Sergeant Detritus. 

The meeting with the Patrician had been blessedly short. Between the note he'd received from Mr. Slant and what his spies had reported, Vetinari appeared to already know, or to have surmised, a great deal about what was happening. He had sent Carrot and Vimes back to the Ramkin house, but insisted on keeping custody of Corbis. "I'm afraid this gentleman and I have a great deal to talk about," he'd said, "I'm quite sure he would very much like to tell me about the antidote." Such innocent words. A part of Vimes could almost feel sorry for Corbis.

Mrs. Content, the midwife, came out of the Almost Orange Bedroom. Vimes glanced up at her briefly, long enough to see her smile.

"The little one seems to be doin' fine, Sir Samuel," she said in a forced-cheerful voice, "I don't think the poison's affectin' it none. Everything seems to be like it should be at this time. Little heart's pumpin' away at a good speed, not slowed down like... like your wife's, sir."

"It's got a heart?" Vimes said numbly. He still hadn't quite gotten his mind totally around the idea of Sybil carrying a real baby.

Mrs. Content gave a short laugh. "Well, you can just barely hear it, if you know where to listen an' what you're listenin' for, but it does indeed have a heart an' it's beatin' away just fine." She sobered, lowering her voice, "'Course, it's not near far enough along... what I mean to say is, if Lady Sybil doesn't... I mean, it couldn't begin to survive..."

"I understand," Vimes said shortly. Maybe that was just as well. He wasn't at all sure yet how he was going to manage being a father. Being a parent alone, without Sybil, was unthinkable.

"Sir Vimes, I do wish you, wish her, all the luck in the world..."

Sam managed a brief nod. He still hadn't looked up from the carpet.

There was a sudden commotion downstairs, saving them both from further embarrassment. Sam heard Carrot's voice saying, "Your lordship, I'm surprised..." and he jumped to his feet and rushed down the stairs.

Lord Havelock Vetinari, the Patrician himself, was standing in the entryway. Two younger men dressed impeccably and stylishly in black, carrying various cases and bits of what appeared to be glassware, accompanied him. Sam froze when he saw them.

"Lord Vetinari?"

"These two gentlemen will go ahead and set up in the kitchen. No one else is to go in there. Do not touch anything that may have been used to eat or drink. If any of you spot dishware or cutlery outside of the kitchen, bring it to the attention of these gentlemen immediately. Do not move or even touch it. Good afternoon, Sir Samuel, you _will_ excuse the intrusion."

"Why are there assassins in my house, sir?"

"All contracts on you are temporarily in abeyance, Commander. In fact, these gentlemen realize that the consequences to them would be quite harsh were you or anyone else in this house to come to any harm. Sir Samuel, is there someplace where we can speak in private?"

"This way," Sam growled, leading Vetinari back to the Mildly Yellow Sitting Room. 

He barely waited until the Patrician had cleared the doorway. "What the hell is going on? What did Corbis say?"

"Sit down, Sir Samuel"

"I'd rather not, sir."

The Patrician sighed. There was no easy way to go about this. "Sir Samuel, there never was any antidote hidden away. Jack Corbis only told you that in an effort to buy time and cooperation. Suzanne Alberts took care of the poisons and sleeping potions. Mr. Corbis knew nothing about what she gave to Lady Sybil."

  
  


_To be continued_ (who'd have guessed?)


	5. My Brothers Keeper - Ch. 5

"Commander, there never was any antidote hidden away."

It was what Vimes had been expecting, considering the Patrician's behaviour, yet hearing the words still made his blood run cold. He shook his head in denial.

"You're certain, sir? How can you be positive?"

"Commander, I myself administered a lethal poison to Mr. Corbis. Not a gentle killer, but a vicious concoction which brings death only after three to four hours of hideous and increasingly excruciating agony. I told him he would be given the antidote if he told us all he knew. He admitted to killing his wife, your sister Alice, and disposing of her body in a deep crevasse not far from, ah, 'Bad Ass' in Lancre. He admitted to designing this extortion plot with the help of his mistress, Suzanne Alberts. Miss Alberts, it turns out, was not a stranger to Ankh-Morpork, but had visited here in her late teens. At that time she had an affair with an unknown but probably now deceased student of the Assassin's Guild, who taught her what little she knew about poisons. 

"Mr. Corbis did give us one bit of information which could be crucial: he believed that Miss Alberts administered the poison in Lady Sybil's tea. That was all he knew, Sir Samuel. I am sorry, but unfortunately I am quite certain."

Sam dropped into the nearest chair, trying to digest and accept the information. "So those assassins in my kitchen, you think they can do something for Sybil?" he asked, a bit desperately.

"If they can isolate and identify the poison used, they will know if there is an antidote and, if so, how to prepare it. They are the best the Guild has to offer, Sir Samuel, which means they are the best alive at their craft."

Sam nodded stiffly. He sat in silence for a moment, his jaw clenched, lips pressed tightly together. "Sir," he said finally, "Did you give Corbis the antidote?"

"There is no antidote for the poison he was given."

Sam looked up sharply.

"I lied to him. It was necessary to be certain he would tell me everything that might possibly be useful. The man was guilty of murder, conspiracy to murder, conspiracy to the unauthorized use of poisons, and of course extortion, not to mention lesser crimes such as assault with intent to kill Captain Carrot. I decreed that he be put to death for his crimes, Commander, and I chose the most effective method of carrying out that sentence. That is my job. A part of my job, at any rate."

Sam broke eye contact and, staring at the carpet, nodded slowly. "Yes, your lordship. But how do you sleep at night?"

"Tonight, I will sleep in the knowledge that I have done all I humanly can to save Lady Sybil's life"

Samuel slowly buried his face in his hands.

The Patrician gave Vimes his privacy and, after checking on the work in the kitchen, let Carrot accompany him back to his carriage.

A few minutes later, Sir Samuel walked back upstairs to sit by the side of his wife. He passed Angua without so much as a nod of recognition. 

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

Time passed. For Sam, the phrase had lost its meaning.

Carrot came into the room quietly, radiating good will and concern. "Mister Vimes," he whispered, as though he might disturb Sybil, "I thought you'd want to know. The assa... the gentlemen in the kitchen found the tea things that the, er, poison was in. Suzanne hadn't washed out anything. They think they've sorted out a sample of what she used. That's good news, sir."

"They think," Sam said bitterly, after a moment's silence, "They think. So now they have to figure out what it was, right? And then they need to find out if there even is an antidote. And if there is, they have to mix it up, assuming they have all the ingredients. Is that the plan, Carrot?"

Carrot swallowed hard. "Um, yes sir, but at least they've made a start. And they are experts at this sort of thing."

Vimes sighed. "Right. Experts." He hadn't taken his eyes off Sybil's face during the entire conversation. It was obvious her condition was worsening. There was almost no color in her face, except dark smudges around her eyes. Even her lips were very, very pale.

Carrot stayed for a few minutes, but there was nothing more to be said, and it was obvious Sir Samuel didn't want to talk. 

A lot more time passed. Sam realized this because the sun had set and he had to light a lamp in order to see Sybil's face. Occasionally he heard muffled conversations downstairs and, several times, the front door opening and closing. 

It was Angua who came in the next time. She brought a slice of Klatchian Hots, and lemonade in a take-away cup. "Commander, they know what the poison is," she said without preamble, "They've done all sorts of alchemy tests, plus they say that the symptoms are just what would be expected. There isn't exactly an antidote, sir, but there are things Lady Sybil can be given to counteract the effects. They're putting it all together now, sir. It shouldn't be much longer. Corporal Littlebottom's down there helping out."

Vimes took a very deep, very shaky breath. "Tell me something, Angua. Honestly. Do you believe this stuff they're mixing can save her? Do you really believe it?"

"I believe, Mister Vimes, that there's a good chance. The best chance we have. Here, take this food. I won't even try to convince you to get any sleep, but you at least have to eat. You're injured and you're exhausted and I'm willing to bet you haven't had a bite to eat all day. You'll end up passing out at this rate."

Sam looked at the congealing cheese. Then he turned his eyes up to Angua. She wished he hadn't. In the forefront was a plea to take the food somewhere far, far away. But behind that was a kind of hollow, bottomless, unbearable despair. They were eyes turned toward the depths of all hells.

"I'll... I'll just leave this," Angua stammered, backing toward the door while she struggled unsuccessfully to stop looking at those eyes, "Try... I know you don't want to but if you can hold down even a little food..." She reached the bedroom door and fled.

More time passed. The door downstairs was opening and closing rather frequently. Eventually Sam picked up the Klatchian Hots and deposited it in a trash bin. He drank the lemonade.

The next time the door opened, it admitted both Carrot and Angua, and Corporal Littlebottom as well. The dwarf was carrying a teacup on a saucer. There was a short eyedropper on the saucer as well. Her hands were shaking so hard that Sam could hear the items clattering together.

"S...Sir, we need to get this down Lady Sybil's throat. All of it. We can, um, dribble it a bit at a time on the back of her tongue and she should swallow r-reflexively. Sergeant Angua has w-water with sugar and salt in it, and if we... if we alternate the two it m-might work better or at least make swallowing easier."

"What's in it? What's it going to do to her?"

"Lots of things, sir. It's as though the poison was, well, slowing everything down. I-If you slow down all the body's activities far enough, th-they... they s-stop altogether. Basically, we just need to, well, wake her up, sir. All parts of her, I mean."

"And she'll be alright then?"

"If we can bring her out of this coma, sir, she should recover just fine. It's just that, sir, it's just that the longer she's been unconscious, the worse everything is. And we just don't know... oh sir, I-I'm so sorry, b-but we just don't know if we're already too late."

"Give me that cup," Vimes ordered, his voice suddenly determined and firm, "I'll do it. Angua, put that beaker of water down here on the bed table where I can reach it."

The mixture in the cup was dark brown and viscous and smelled strongly of sharp, peppery spices and Katchian Red Desert Special coffee. Vimes cringed and shuddered. He was fairly sure that if he inhaled enough of the vapors, especially in his current state, he'd be terminally afflicted with over-sobriety.

Dribble, dribble, dribble. A dropper-full of mixture. A dropper-full of water. Waiting for Sybil to swallow. Another of mixture. Another of water. He only dared go so fast. It seemed the level in the cup barely changed.

"How long should it take this stuff to work, Corporal?" Vimes asked without taking a break from his task.

"Once you've gotten it all down her, not long, sir. I-If... I-If it's... If it's g-going to w-work, i-it shouldn't take m-more than f-fifteen minutes, I'd guess."

"Corporal Littlebottom, I hope you don't think that, if this doesn't work, I am going to hold you personally responsible. You look about to faint from sheer terror."

"I-It's not that, sir. I... I've just never made anything, or helped make anything, s-so... so important. People's lives don't usually d-depend on me, sir."

"Corporal, you're a copper. People's lives depend on you every day. They're just not usually people you know. Now, I want you to go downstairs and keep chatting with those... _gentlemen_ in the kitchen. If this doesn't work, we're not going to just give up. I want you working on alternatives."

"Yes, sir." The dwarf set off downstairs, seeming almost relieved.

Another dropper of mixture. Another dropper of water. Come on, swallow, please swallow. Gods, what if she chokes?

"Carrot," Angua said quietly, "Let's see if we can help downstairs."

"I don't really think there's anything..."

"Carrot," she repeated, exasperated. 

The Captain looked confused, then slowly enlightenment dawned. If he were in Mister Vimes' place right now, knowing that the next few minutes would tell if Angua would live or die, he wouldn't want anyone standing around watching over his shoulder.

"Oh. Yes, we should see if there's anything we can do to help. Uh, Mister Vimes, sir, we'll just be... I mean..."

"You know I want to be alone with my wife right now, but that doesn't mean you don't care, and you both want me to realize you're here for me if I need the moral support. Yes, yes, I got all that. Even I can occasionally hear what's not being said, Carrot."

"Yes, sir. Come on Angua."

Vimes worked in silence in a world where nothing existed except the dropper, the cup, the beaker, and Lady Sybil.

And then the cup was empty. The sound it made when he carefully put it on the table was surprisingly loud in the silent room. Sybil was still, white, and cold as an alabaster statue.

Sam Vimes looked at his watch. And waited.

He remembered the day Sybil had given him Errol, the total whittle that had saved Ankh-Morpork from a monster dragon.

He remembered that first awkward, candlelit dinner, and her bashful, hopeful smile, that somehow would always be The First Smile.

He remembered how amazed he had been to discover that her idea of a nourishing breakfast was his idea of the perfectly prepared meal. With an orange thrown in, of course.

He remembered Sybil somehow making the best of their frenetic, haphazard wedding, in spite of the chaos that had surrounded it, in spite of Vimes himself.

And his watch said five minutes had passed.

He remembered Sybil, after the bandit attack, tears running down her cheeks, saying, "I knew you'd come up with something, Sam. I wasn't frightened... I'm sorry I let you down." She thought _she'd_ let _him_ down.

He remembered her standing at the top of some stone stairs, holding an iron bar with a werewolf-shaped bend in it.

He remembered Sybil changing the course of history, and coincidentally saving their lives, with her amazing soprano rendering of Ironhammer's Ransom opera. And he hadn't even known she could sing!

He remembered her dressed in a massive array of light blue finery, and he in those godsdamned red tights. How her voice had been only a touch impatient. "Can I have your attention for a couple of minutes? I'm going to have a baby."

Ten minutes. Sybil hadn't stirred.

Because of Sybil the Watch had moved to Pseudopolis Yard, and the dragon had been stopped. Because of Sybil he had given up the booze, and become the Commander of sixty Watchmen rather than the Captain of three. Because of Sybil he was sometimes able, almost, to keep up this charade as His Grace Sir Samuel, the Duke of Ankh.

Because of Sybil, he had seen, for the first time in his life, a real future.

Sam could not bring himself to look at his watch.

He thought about what his future would be without Sybil.

He had a brother to find, and a sister to bury. And after that, he would crawl into a whiskey bottle and never come out again. Oh, it wouldn't be a conscious decision. He would fight it. But Sam Vimes was a man who knew his limits. 

He would have a wife and an unborn child to bury. Dead partly because of his thoughtlessness. And after that, sobriety would be beyond his ability to endure.

He looked at his watch. He had no choice. Maybe it hadn't been as long as it seemed.

It had been almost twenty minutes since she'd swallowed the last of the dark brown mixture.

Sybil continued to lie as still and cold as death. 

Vimes buried his face in his hands. 

There were barriers and dams within the psyche of Samuel Vimes that were massively thick, composed of solid granite and reinforced with the finest dwarf iron. They held in place huge reservoirs of emotions, memories, responses, and reactions that were Not Allowed. Some of those barriers had been in place since he was a young boy growing up on Cockbill Street.

But now there wasn't a barrier left on the disc that could hold back the grief, and the tears began to fall. They ran down his face in rivers. A detached part of his brain was surprised he even remembered how to cry like this. He must have done it as a small child, but he'd given it up at a very young age. Sam's shoulders shook with great, wracking sobs. He wept so hard he could barely breathe, his chest and stomach aching, his nose clogged and running, but he sobbed in silence. The only sounds were the ragged, whistling gasps as he struggled to inhale.

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

Sitting with Carrot on the upstairs foyer couch, Angua could not help hearing. Adversity was no stranger to any werewolf, and Angua took pride in her emotional control, but now she wept in sympathy. Instinctually, she longed to stand on a high, snow-covered mountain peak, throw back her head, and howl.

"Is... is she...?" Carrot whispered.

"N-no. I don't think there's b-been any change. But the Commander, he's... he's just given up h-... wait... Wait!"

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

Samuel wept more fiercely than he would have believed possible, and still it did not seem enough.

He was crying so hard, he didn't notice, in fact _couldn't_ notice, when his wife's breathing changed.

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

"Sam? Sam, darling, what is it? What's the matter?"

Cool fingers brushed the damp hair off his forehead, stroked his temple.

"Sam, please, talk to me. Whatever it is, we can get through it together." 

Vimes lifted his face and looked into the concerned eyes of his wife. He was too deep in the abyss to fully comprehend.

"Sybil?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"Sybil?"

"Darling, nothing can be as bad as this. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

He took her forcefully into his arms, crushing her against his chest, clinging to her for all that he was worth, and cried uncontrollably.

"There, there, dear. Can't you stop, dear, please? What is it? I've never seen you so."

"I... I th-thought... I thought I was... g-going... going t-to... going to l-lose y-y-you."

"Lose me? Don't be silly. Come now, whatever do you me... oh."

He lifted his head to look at her, one hand cupping her cheek. "I th...thought you were... were going to... were going t-to d... going to d..."

"Sam," Sybil's voice was clearer now, and urgent, "Sam, what's happened? I don't feel quite well. Awfully woozy, actually. And I can't remember clearly. Where...? How did I get here? Why...? Oh, my gracious... Sam! I remember Suzanne... Sam, I think she put something in my tea!"

Vimes sniffed noisily, scrubbing at his face, still hiccupping. "It... It's okay, Sybil. You're right, b-but... it's all... it's all taken care of now. She... she isn't going to hurt anyone anymore. You're... you're g... you're going to be fine now."

"Sam," Sybil's voice was hollow as death, "Sam, the baby..."

"M-Mrs. C-Content thinks he... it... uh, wh-whatever will be f-fine. She says th-the poison didn't affect th-the baby."

Sybil sighed hugely with relief.

"Sybil, she s-said it's g-got a heart. I mean, already. Sh-she said she could hear its h-heart beating."

"Could she, dear? How wonderful!" Sybil's smile glowed in spite of the pallor of her face. 

She fondly wiped some of the moisture from her husband's cheek. "So everything's all right now?"

Vimes nodded, and managed to look exceptionally happy in a rather watery sort of way.

"Uh, Sam?" Sybil's smile toned down a bit, becoming somewhat shy, "You were really crying like that just... only because you were worried about losing... about me?"

Sam took her in his arms again, snuggling down so they were both resting on the pillows. "Yes, and it was b-bloody unpleasant, so you'd just b-better not scare me like th-that again." 

"I'll try to remember, dear," Sybil said with a bit of a giggle.

"I had just never g-given any thought... Gods, how do you put up with m-me, just taking everything for granted?"

"I'm your wife, dear, you're supposed to take me for granted."

Samuel chuckled, and yawned, and sniffled, and eventually began to softly snore.

  
  
  


Still to be continued... (I've got some loose ends to tie up)


	6. My Brothers Keeper - Ch. 6

Three thousand miles away, in a little fishing village on the coast of Brindisi, Maria hurried home. She thought of the same things she always did after work, thoughts common to widowed, working mothers all through the multiverse. She thought of how exhausted she was and how much, in her case, her fingers and hands ached from mending nets for hour after hour. She planned what she would prepare for supper, and what she would need to do to stretch the food in the pantry until the next payday. She worried about her children home alone. Her son Tommy was a responsible boy, for the most part, but staying home with a younger sister all day while she worked was a heavy load for any 12-year-old. But there was nothing for it. Her husband had died three years previously when his fishing trawler was lost during an unexpected storm. Like most people, the family did what they had to do to get by. They didn't waste time on bitterness or feeling sorry for themselves. There were a lot of people out there, even some of their friends and neighbors, who were worse off by far. Or so they told themselves.

It suddenly stopped being just another day when she came within sight of her home and saw a fancy black carriage stopped in front. On the front porch, taking advantage of the cool breeze off the water, a middle-aged man sat chatting with Tommy. A gentleman who looked extraordinarily out of place in this neighborhood. He was wearing an expensive, well-fitting suit that didn't appear to have been handed down from two generations before. What hair remained on his balding head had obviously been trimmed by someone who hadn't had to use the same scissors and razors that were usually used to clean fish. He had a briefcase on his lap that looked to be, of all things, real leather, as did his shoes.

Maria's daughter Cora, who had been playing on the strip of dirt that passed for their front yard, jumped up and came running when she spotted her. "Mama!" she cried happily, "Mama, come, a man's here to see you."

"I see that," Maria replied somewhat suspiciously as the gentleman rose and approached her.

"Mrs. Vimes, let me introduce myself," he said in a cultured voice, "My name is Horace Etamore. If it meets with your approval, I will be your new financial solicitor."

"Cora, go get washed up for dinner. Sir, what are you going on about? I didn't have an _old_ financial solicitor. What is a financial solicitor and why ever should I want one?"

"My primary duty will be to see that your funds are invested wisely. I'll also be available to aid in handling any large business transactions."

"Such silliness! The only investment I'm going to be making is to buy a nice fresh tuna come the end of the week. I don't need a solicitor for that; I've been buying fish since I was a young girl. Tommy, take your sister inside and get washed up."

"Mrs. Vimes, if you'll allow me to explain? You are going to need financial advice because, as these documents here explain, an account has been opened in your name in the amount of $75,000."

"Seventy-five Thousand Dollars?! Oh, wow!" Tommy shouted.

"Didn't I tell you to get inside?" Maria said distractedly. She took the papers Mr. Etamore had taken out of his briefcase and blinked at them obtusely. "Look, I don't know if this is some kind of trick or just a poor joke, but..."

"No, no, I assure you. I realize this may seem a bit unreal at first, but everything is perfectly legitimate. You can see that everything is signed and legal. You are to have immediate access to the funds. There are 'no strings attached,' as they say.

"Seventy-five Thousand?" Maria murmured monotonically. She wondered exactly how she had managed to go to sleep and start dreaming while walking home from work.

"Mama, we can buy everything we could ever want!" Tommy crowed. "A new house, a carriage fancier than the one he has, all the food we can eat..."

"Can I ha' a new desth?" Cora inquired, hampered by the finger she had stuck into her mouth, "An' a 'ony?"

"A new dress? You can have a hundred dresses, Cora!" Tommy assured her, "Mama, you can stay home with her! Um, us, I mean. You won't have to work no more!"

"No, now, hold on a minute," Maria cautioned, though a look of delight was creeping onto her face, "We're not spending all of it tomorrow. We'll have to be reasonable. You're going to go to school, both of you, for one thing..."

"A hund'ed desthesth? An' a 'ony?"

"Cora, take that finger out of your mouth. You've been playing in the dirt." Maria felt as though she was speaking on autopilot while her brain went for a long lay down. "And whatever would we do with a pony? I don't need another mouth to feed." 

"Um, Mrs. Vimes," Etamore interrupted, "I'm all in favor of encouraging you to practice fiscal responsibility, but there is something more you should understand. This $75,000 is the lump sum you're receiving immediately. There has also been a trust fund established through which you'll be receiving $10,000 annually for the rest of your life. In the event you should pass on in the next twenty years, your children would receive that amount until they reach age 21."

"Wow." Tommy sat down hard on the ground, stunned into silence.

Cora took the finger from her mouth. "Can I have new shoes, too? Red ones? And a hundred dresses, and a pony?"

"I... I don't understand," Maria whispered, shaking her head, "Why? This money... where is it all coming from?"

"I'm afraid I am not at liberty to disclose the name of your benefactor. He asks that you be told only that he is someone who wishes he had taken time to get better acquainted with your husband, Ron, while he still had the chance."

+==+==+==+==+==+==+

Sir Samuel Vimes grunted as he hoisted a trunk onto the coach, and brushed off his hands with an air of finality. "I think that's everything, then. It certainly should be." Angua nodded briskly. She was not one to pack heavily for a trip.

"Sam," Lady Sybil called, coming out of the house carrying a sizable basket, "I've packed some snacks and fruit juice in ice..."

"Here, give me that! You're not to be lifting things!" Vimes took the basket and slid it inside the coach.

"Oh, honestly, Samuel, I am not an invalid. Women with half my stamina have babies all the time."

"Yes, but I'm not married to any of them. Thank you for this, dear, but I'm sure it's not necessary. There are certainly inns between here and Lancre."

"Would you like me to drive as far as the Watch House to pick up Carrot, sir?" Angua asked. She was becoming uncomfortably aware of being audience to a husband/ wife moment.

"I'll drive, Sergeant. Why don't you get in the coach and see about rearranging things so that we might have some element of comfort." Vimes turned back to his wife, suddenly looking a bit like he wanted to escape the husband/wife moment himself. "Dear, you are... okay with this, right?"

"Well, I wish you would let me come with you, Sam..."

"We've already been through this," Vimes replied, vehemence rising ponderously to the surface, "This is going to be an uncomfortable journey over rough roads just to do a personal, unpleasant job. You were at death's door a mere three weeks ago, and now you think you can go out into the rural mountains where education means learning to sign your name with an 'X' and the nearest town, which means an inn and four houses, is on the other side of a 200 foot deep ditch which you cross by walking on an old log..." He stopped long enough to take a breath, "...Just to close up a poacher's pitiful shack that's probably been ransacked by bandits and taken over by raccoons by now, and go searching for the half decomposed, half eaten remains of a woman you never even met?!"

"That's what you're going to do, Sam," Sybil replied gently.

"I'm not pregnant! Besides, it's different. She was my sister, and she was murdered, and I should have seen Corbis was trouble instead of getting soused out of my head at her wedding. She deserved better than me for a big brother. Seeing that she has some sort of funeral or whatever, well, it's not likely to matter one way or another to her anymore, but I at least owe her memory that much."

"I know that, dear. It's called closure."

"Yes, whatever. The point is, there were five of us Sybil. And now there's me, and that's the end."

"No, Sam. Not the end," Sybil corrected tenderly, putting her hand on her protruding abdomen.

Vimes took a deep, slow breath, calming himself. "Right. Which is why I want you to be here at home, which we ludicrously refer to as safe. If it would do any good I'd put this off, but..."

"Put it off until I'm further along? Until we have a baby to care for? And the chance that you'll ever locate where Alice lived and died dropping all the while? No, dear, you go along now and I'll stay here and be the patient wife. Just come home to me soon and safe."

"This isn't going to be a long trip. Now you know that either Detritus, Littlebottom or Constable Flint will be here with you day and night while I'm gone..."

"Which is totally silly and unnecessary. Good gracious, Willikins and I lived here alone, except for 37 swamp dragons, for many years, Samuel Vimes!"

"You weren't pregnant then. Or married to a man that all of the city's worse criminals have a personal vendetta against Look, it's a cushy job for them and it will make me feel a bit better."

"Oh, Sam," Sybil capitulated with a fond smile, "Get on with you, now. Angua's waiting."

"Er, yes," Sam patted her shoulder awkwardly, "I do need to, yes, get going. Okay. Goodbye, dear. Do take care now."

"And you, darling. Have a good journey."

Sam climbed up on the stage. He picked up the reins. He looked at the reins in his hands. He looked at the horses. He sighed. He put down the reins and got down from the stage.

He walked back to Sybil and quickly gave her a gentle kiss. On the lips. Sybil's eyes opened wide in surprise.

"Sybil, I don't know what I'd do without you. I love you."

"I love you, too, dear," Sybil replied, dumbfounded, to his retreating back. She watched as he jumped into the seat and, without looking back, coaxed the horses into a gentle trot down Scoone Avenue. She watched until the coach turned onto King's Way and disappeared from sight.

_'The last time he kissed me in public was at our wedding,' she marveled, 'Which was also the first time. And then only because he felt forced to. And… he said it. After a year of seeing each other and three year's of marriage, he actually said it'_

She walked slowly back into the house, musing happily about the unexpected benefits of misfortunes.

  
Finis


	7. My Brothers Keeper - AUTHOR'S NOTES

MY BROTHER'S KEEPER - AUTHOR'S NOTES

Okay, be honest now. How many of you had to go back to Chapter Two to figure out who Ron was?

I was very new at posting my writing on the net when I wrote this, and especially new at letting people read what I'd written  before the entire work was complete. Heck, I'm still pretty new at even letting people read what I've written! :) And this one was an especially new experience because I had literally only the foggiest notion of where it might be going when I posted the first chapter. The opening paragraphs had been floating in my mind for at least a week while I was doing housework; I didn't even know at that time that Suzanne would be a villain. 

In spite of editing, this still has errors and problems. One that especially bothers me is that, extrapolating forward from 'The Fifth Elephant,' there should not have been a heat wave in Ankh-Morpork. The story should have taken place in late winter. And Silicanslateslayers is a poor name for a troll.  I'm not sure why he is in here anyway.  Also, I guess we must assume this story took place before 'The Truth', since I state there is no clacks tower in Lancre.  I'm hoping to address that problem in the story I'm working on now, 'Last Rights'. 

Some things worked out as though they went directly from my muse to the computer, with no participation from my brain. The biggest is that I had no idea why I wrote that long section in Chapter One with Vimes, Carrot and the paperwork. It was just fun. It didn't occur to me until much later to write about the clacks from Margrat being lost on Vimes' desk, which became instrumental to getting Angua to the Ramkin house.

Some reviewers have said they were surprised I was able to write a convincing story where Vimes completely loses it and breaks down. The odd thing is that I didn't know that was going to happen until sometime during Chapter 4. I didn't start out to write about Vimes sobbing his heart out. I wouldn't have thought it in character. Vimes just doesn't cry. But when I put him in the situation and said to myself, "Okay, what would Samuel Vimes do now?" that's what came out.

In his review of this story, Intrasonic wrote that the line "Tonight, I will sleep in the knowledge that I have done all I humanly can to save Lady Sybil's life" is out of character for Vetinari, and I definitely agree. That line very nearly got changed to "I do not lose sleep over making the correct decision, Sir Samuel. And I am not afforded the luxury of making wrong decisions." I left it as is for two reasons. First, it works better for the mood of the story. Secondly, I was trying to show a slightly human side to the Patrician. He's taking a personal interest here, by arranging for the assassins to work on an antidote and by going to Vimes' home in person to deliver the bad news. I think he quite likes Lady Sybil. (And it's obvious from my slash writing that I sense a deeply hidden fondness for Samuel.) 

I myself am not convinced that this is an especially good story, but I am proud of the reviews it has gotten. People whom I know are _much_ better writers than me, such as The God of Angst, have said they like it. It made Jinxster, Twist, J.D., Xandra, and even Manx cry, which I _think_ is a compliment. I didn't know what the heck I was doing when I started this story, and there's no way in hell I would have finished it had it not been for my reviewers. So this is dedicated to Jinxster, TGoA, Twist, Manx, Ihadanepiphany, Archer, Dreamkin, J.D., and all the rest. Thank you. You guys are great.


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